One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  I have to stop to steady my hand as I lift my potato roses out of the hot tin. That one nearly slipped off the serving spoon.

  ‘One minute left,’ calls out Pip.

  I stretch my fingers, pull back my shoulders and try to regain my composure. Remember why you are here, I whisper to myself. I think of Martha, her faith in me. Her conviction that I can do this. Rooting for me from her tiny corner of the retirement home, encouraging me to go for this in the first place. I think of Zoe and Mel sacrificing their shifts to help me out. I think of Alice who would share her last pound with me if it came to it. Dad and Rachel and even my brothers who worry if I’ll ever find my way.

  I can’t let all these people down. I need to give this my all. I need to focus. Katie, focus!

  Carefully, I lift a perfectly formed, perfectly baked, golden rosebud from the tin and onto my decorated plate. My hand steady again, I wipe the edges with my cloth, dress my lamb’s lettuce and add the finishing touch, a dried gold-blush rose petal, to the centre of the dish to bring it all together.

  ‘Three, two, one. Time is up!’

  Wow. It’s done. I did it.

  I don’t turn around to Ben this time. I keep my eyes forward. On my dish. On the judges. On this opportunity that I want and need so much. Because seeing Ben today, up close, is enough to throw me off my game and make me forget why I am here. But I can’t afford to lose anything else. And the closer I’m getting to winning this position, the more I realise how much I don’t want to go back to where I’ve been.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jean-Michel whispers into Pip’s ear as they inspect our plates and nod in solemn agreement before he addresses us all.

  ‘We are looking to advance the best. But remember we are also looking to eliminate the worst. There are two dishes here today that really did blow our minds – by how bad they were.’

  Pip walks over to the pass. He looks at the first plate presented by a tall, lanky chef with the biggest hands I’ve seen. He lowers to sniff the dish.

  ‘Blinis.’

  The tall chef nods.

  ‘You know what this is like? To me, this is like going to the New York Philharmonic. You are excited, these guys are the best of the best, top of their game, selected from thousands, trained by the most celebrated in the world. Skilled, passionate, exemplary in every way. You are all dressed up, you’ve brought a hot date, or your wife. Everything is in place for something extraordinary, something memorable, something special… And then they play “Chopsticks”.’

  The tall chef’s eyes widen. This sounds like it’s going in the wrong direction.

  ‘These blinis are “Chopsticks”. A complete let-down. Patronisingly simple. Devoid of imagination.’ Pip picks up his fork and begins to prod around the plate. ‘And you know what? These may taste great; these may be out of this world. But here is the thing. I don’t care enough to find out. I’m so uninspired by the mere word “blini” that I don’t even care to try this. I wouldn’t want to read it on a menu; I wouldn’t even want to ask my maître d’ to write it up because I suspect he may die of boredom before the second letter.’

  Jean-Michel nods his head. ‘This challenge was about creativity. This is not creative. This is passé.’ He points to the door. ‘Please see yourself out, you are now eliminated from this process.’

  Oh my God, he didn’t even taste it! I was going to go with blinis! Thank God I didn’t. But what about my dish? What’s he going to make of it? I just cannot predict his reaction. My palms start to sweat. Even though I have no idea what’s going to happen next, I’m going to have to act ready anyway. Stay calm. Stay rooted to the spot. Stay professional. I can’t let my insecurities leak out and make a mess everywhere.

  I try to console myself. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

  Well, except that both of them attack me, screaming, shouting, throwing my food in the bin in front of all these people, including Ben. And then they eliminate me and I have to break the bleak news to everyone that I have, indeed, failed again with the one thing that I’m supposed to be good at it. And then I wake up in my sleeping bag on Alice’s couch bright and early tomorrow morning to head back to Parkland’s kitchen with Bernie as my superior for evermore. And this time I’ll have no real hope or practical way of escaping.

  I clench my jaw tight. And decide that my attempt to cheer myself up has actually just scared the living crap out of me.

  I watch the tall chef slide his apron over his head and fold up his knives. The kitchen is utterly still and silent. Nobody dares move. I hear the swing door whoosh shut. And he’s gone. And we are one down, just like that. Nine of us remain. But for how long is anybody’s guess.

  Jean steps up to the next plate, which belongs to a young, dark-haired chef with a goatee. He regards the dish. ‘C’est quoi?’

  ‘Pommes purée, chef. I immersed the potatoes in the sous vide at a high heat for twenty minutes before passing them through the sieve fifty times to ensure a perfectly even, silky-smooth texture.’

  Jean-Michel’s face stays unmoved as he samples a small forkful.

  ‘Flavour is almost adequate. But texture? Colour? It looks like somebody already ate it, and brought it back up again.’

  He considers the dish another moment, then puts down his fork.

  ‘Just because the equipment exists doesn’t mean we should use it for the sake of using it. I watched you as you cooked. You spent more time with the equipment than with the food. This upsets me. I am looking for creativity. And this should not have been created at all. It has no soul. To me, you have sucked the life out of this. Impardonnable. You have prepared your last dish in this process. Please, the door.’

  A second chef stripped of his apron, he exits through the swinging door without looking back.

  Jean-Michel dispatches the next four chefs in the same manner, one by one, a curled lip, a sigh, a grunt, a shrug of his shoulders, a shake of his head, and then a decisive nod to the door.

  Eventually Pip looks towards me. ‘So, let’s get on to some better news. We were impressed with the talent that remains. Katie, you did yourself proud. I shall let Octavia know that her instinct about you proved correct. Today, you came out of your comfort zone. Your presentation is elegant, your flavour combination impeccable. This is what I would order at a high-end restaurant and if I was served this, I would be extremely satisfied. So well done, I look forward to more.’

  I’m in. I passed. I’m coming back! I blow out my cheeks, letting a huge sigh of relief escape my lips. I stretch out my tightly furled fingers. And unclench my butt. And unlock my knees. My whole body loosens as the fear of elimination dissipates. That was tense. That was scary.

  Pip then turns to Ben.

  And I feel my fists ball and my butt re-clench and my knees re-lock. I’m as nervous for Ben as I was for myself. Please let him survive this! Please don’t send him out, away again, through those doors never to return.

  I hold my breath. If Ben doesn’t get through I’m going to speak out about what I suspect Beardy did. There’s no way should Ben be going home. I cross my fingers and hold my breath. Hoping. Praying.

  ‘Vichyssoise. This was an inspired choice. A nod towards the British favourite of potato and leek soup, but light and elegant enough to serve as a summer’s day appetiser. It’s clean. It’s clever. It’s classical. It makes me think of all the other times I’ve enjoyed this great dish in other high-end dining rooms, and believe me, this is up there. It belongs here. And that tells me that you belong here.’

  I unclench. God, that feels good.

  Jean-Michel takes a step towards Ben. ‘What I like is that you served it at room temperature. Not cold. Not chilled. Just right so the flavours shine. At the wrong temperature, you can’t differentiate all the dimensions in there and it tastes as a plain potato soup. But, this…’ He takes another spoonful, closing his eyes as he swallows. ‘C’est vraiment très bon.’

  Ben bows his gratitude and I watch a modest smile relax h
is lips. He glances over at me and winks his gratitude.

  Jean-Michel praises another quiet chef called Joe for his efforts and spares him the walk of shame. He’s saved. He’ll return tomorrow.

  Pip pivots on his heel and raises his chin towards the back-corner station. He claps slow and hard. ‘But let’s not get carried away with commendations when there is a clear winner amongst you.’

  There’s only one chef remaining that he could be talking about.

  And that’s Beardy. Beardy the soufflé assassin is standing, arms folded across his chest, a proud, smug smile across his round, red face.

  ‘Our grand chef of today, is Harry Trott. Harry, please talk us through your dish.’

  Dirty Harry he should be called, the hairy, sneaking cheat.

  Harry explains in a low, gravelly tone. ‘It’s a clam, pickled potato, and Sichuan oil salad. I sliced the potato finely with a mandolin, then placed the slices in a pickling broth of ginger and star anise, while the clams went into a saucepan to mingle with garlic, shallot, and a healthy glug of sake. With the fishy clams and the bright, luminous red Sichuan oil – which I made with plenty of chilies and peppercorns – I wanted to make a statement. I like loud, bold, in-your-face flavours. I like ingredients that intimidate: tongue, brains, jellyfish, cod sperm. I love nothing more than persuading diners to eat foodstuffs they wouldn’t ordinarily appeal. I take what’s intimidating and make it interesting,’ he says, chin high, nostrils flared, as if he’d already been crowned grand chef and we’re now his lowly minions. ‘I like to challenge. I like nervousness, anticipation, but most of all I like drama, because that’s what makes a meal great.’

  Cod sperm? Did he say cod sperm?

  Pip actually smiles. It is the first time I have seen his teeth. He walks forward and shakes Dirty Harry’s hand. ‘Now, I’m excited. The competition is hotting up,’ he nods towards us, the remaining four.

  ‘Go home. Au revoir et à demain,’says a big-chested Jean-Michel as he turns on his heel and out the door without a backward glance.

  As I gather my belongings together at my station, I know I should be rejoicing at surviving today and having the chance to come back tomorrow, but I can’t help but feel enraged that Harry has got away with what he did. By the smug grin on his face, he is very pleased with himself, and his cunning plan to trounce the competition got him to the top spot after all. And I’m the only one who knows what he did to Ben. I’m the only one who knows his dirty little sabotaging secret. To everyone else, Harry Trott appears a genius, a daring savant, an unbeatable new grand chef.

  But I know different. So, as I slip my apron over my head and fold it carefully ready for the next day, I decide that tomorrow is not just about survival, not just about avoiding elimination. Tomorrow, I’ve got to set my sights on winning. If nothing else, I want to wipe that smug look off Harry Trott’s cod-spermy face and serve him up his just desserts.

  Ben calls out to me and I see that he’s making his way in my direction. But I’ve had about as much as I can take today. Personally and professionally. So I nod my goodbyes and dash out into the fading evening light. With a surprising sense of relief and a swell of pride, I jump on my bike and start pedalling straight for Parklands.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As this is a late evening shift, the place is eerily quiet, empty and still when I arrive. I push through the heavy wooden doors into a deserted, dimly lit kitchen and I realise that I’m the only catering staff member here. No Mel and Zoe to chat to and have fun with, but likewise, no Bernie to harass me and bring me down. I change out of my lovely starched tunic into a well-worn gingham bib, slip on a blue plastic hairnet and take a moment to listen… to absolutely nothing. No shouted orders, no cynical guffaws, no snorted criticisms, no call for time. Nothing but the sound of my slowing heartbeat and the rhythmic buzz of white noise coming from the fridges. I pause a second to catch my breath. It is blissful.

  I don’t turn on the radio, grateful for the silence, happy to be alone for a while after the franticness of the day. For the first time ever, I’m actually looking forward to getting stuck into the mindless routine of this factory-line kitchen, the repetitive, brain-numbing nature of the work seeming almost meditative compared to the fraught intensity of Jean-Michel’s kitchen. And now that I find myself completely physically and emotionally overwhelmed by the process, it is a great pleasure and relief that I get to come here and work in solitude, without audience, scrutiny, judgement or fear. I smile to myself as I hoist up the first of four huge bins of spuds for washing, knowing that once the prep is done, I’m free to go home.

  I can do this kind of work with my eyes closed, so as my hands rinse and sieve and peel and dice, my mind wanders off to somewhere else altogether.

  And I’d like to say it was on planning my next menu or quizzing myself on rusty techniques or even mentally psyching myself to bring out my best and not get intimidated by Harry Trott’s cut-throat campaign to win.

  But it’s Ben that’s on my mind.

  I can’t think of anything else but him.

  I think about the way he mouthed ‘thank you’ to me earlier.

  I’ve stared at his photo for so long, it is like I have a static memory of him in mind. So today, when we were actually facing each other again in real life and real time, it didn’t seem real. It felt was like I was imagining the whole thing. Or more accurately, I had to check myself that the whole business of us breaking up and going our separate ways wasn’t the illusion. Did that really happen? Because today, in that kitchen, in that moment that I was standing in front of him with my hands on his shoulders, it felt like we’d never been apart. That we belonged together and that was the way it was meant to be.

  So, even though professionally, I’m moving on, getting back on track to recovery, I have to admit that seeing Ben has only shown me how little I’ve moved on emotionally. And how little I want to.

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

  That is utter bollocks.

  I’d have been better off never knowing what it was like to love Ben. Because then I wouldn’t know how special and rare and impossibly unattainable it is with anyone else.

  ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea,’ I was told on about five thousand occasions. Which is great, if you like men with fish lips or fish scents or with wet fish personalities. Or sharks like Harry Trott.

  Today I looked at Ben and I just wanted to press rewind, and bring us right back to just before we went off the cliff edge, in two separate directions. I think it’s because I still see the waste, the travesty, the wrongness of us being apart. It would be so much easier to see him and think to myself ‘You bastard’. To steel myself with memories of all our shortcomings, to remind myself of all the ways he treated me badly or let me down or made me feel worthless.

  But I can’t conjure up anything of the sort.

  Because Ben never did any of these things.

  In fact, he made me feel like I was the most special, most beautiful, most cared for girl in the world.

  And being around him again, all it has done is reawaken that ache. God, how I miss feeling that way. Special, loved, safe.

  How I miss how we were. Loved up, hopeful, fearless for the future.

  Who we were when we were together. Happy, confident, anchored.

  Then came sad, confused and lost.

  I was bereft when we split, but given that he was leaving the country there was no chance of me ‘accidentally’ bumping into him looking effortlessly drop-dead gorgeous, or spontaneously cycling to his house in my PJs in the early hours of the morning begging for another chance, or calling him up when I drank too much wine and pouring my heart into his voicemail. He was gone, he was unreachable. So I threw myself into the restaurant, and barely came up for air.

  But now he is back. Footsteps away from me again every time we stand at our stations. And even if I don’t turn my head, even if I don’t make eye contact, even if I turn m
y back and pretend he is just another chef, just any other guy, I know he’s there.

  We were so good together. We really could have had it all. Everybody thought so.

  That made the fallout quite unreal, and the thought of ever getting with someone else quite unnatural. So for me there hasn’t been anyone else, not even close. But Ben has never had any shortage of admirers, Georgia was testimony to that. Maybe us breaking up turned out to be the best thing that ever happened for him.

  I hoist up the second bin of potatoes, and start scrubbing them under scalding hot water, burying myself in the task, making a poor attempt at trying not to think about it all anymore. We believed that we had to have it one way or another. Not trusting ourselves to find a way to realise both our dreams and ambitions, to find balance, to make time for each other. I want to run over to my twenty-six-year-old self and shake her by the shoulders. Instead I shrug my shoulders, because it’s all too little, too late and it just hurts too much to wish that things were any different.

  By the time the clock strikes eleven and I near the end of my shift, I have been so lost in the silence, in my own thoughts, busily ticking off the jobs on the list left by Zoe, that I’ve hardly noticed the hours pass, not drag as they usually do. My last task is to leave out the breakfast service ready for the early shift and do a quick whip-round the residents to see if anyone wants a last cup of tea before I knock off for the night and close the kitchen.

  I walk the dimly lit, quiet carpeted halls, gently knocking on each resident’s door, but there is no one awake now, nothing to hear except some deep snoring, the hypnotic mumblings of late-night radio and the odd sleep-talker whispering the other side of a dream. I pop my head around Martha’s door, but she is sound asleep, a smile dancing on her lips. By her bedside is an open photo album, and I take a quick peek. A young, impossibly glamourous Martha sits at a very fancy dining table laughing while her striking moustachioed Oskar pops a champagne cork. The next photo shows Martha again in her finery, this time a very cute cream flapper dress, cuddled into Oskar as she kicks out her leg and smiles. I look closer and I realise I recognise the exterior of the building; she is on the steps of the Ritz. Wow, she really wasn’t joking when she said that she wined and dined in the finest places in her day.